


cut the act (everything ruined in moments)

by waywardbubblegum



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fire, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Spoilers, all telling him that he would never belong with any of them and that he has no place in the world, because i feel like above losing aziraphale, crowley fears both of those things most, or something? idk, so like the somebody was supposed to be a term restricted to heaven hell and aziraphale, spoilers?, this just in: writer tries to be poetic and it flops. this is new news to no one, you know i had this whole thing for somebody being a mix of heaven and hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 10:50:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardbubblegum/pseuds/waywardbubblegum
Summary: there is fire. there is glass. everything is too much and crowley's vision is lily-white.alternatively: this fic in my docs is just called "nightmare fic time babey !" and that sums it up pretty nicely





	cut the act (everything ruined in moments)

**Author's Note:**

> saw someone refer to aziraphale's hands as lily-white. i agreed
> 
> this is a fic that i wrote the first 1700 words of at 4-5 am and the last 600 or so at late 1am to 2am. someone, please help.  
> loosely inspired by several other fics, such as chapter 6 of "And the shadows they burn dark" by Antheas_Blackberry, and chapter one of "and I awaken (but where have all the stars gone?)" by killingthemoon. along with several others that aren't coming to mind at the moment.  
> i deeply apologise to anyone who reads this and the people that are being mentioned in my bad fanfic. thank u for ur time.  
> oh also the title of this is the name of a wonderful instrumental track by ghost and pals, from their album nothing perfect. felt like it was fitting cause. reasons. meaningful ones. please go support them and tell them not to get mad at me. i am fragile

there is sunset, and there is an empty bench, and on his left side, trees. a multitude, a pure expanse of trees. so many. too many. he does not move as the river in front of him extends its hands upwards in agony, barely scraping at his shoes as it begs to not be turned brown. he does not move but still tosses an empty soda can he wasn’t drinking out of into the water, and watches the hands recede as the blue fades into a murky green.

on his right, there was a pathway. grass was the one that started the revolution, and with the sin of wrath it overthrew the government of beige soil. crowley would applaud, but he would rather not disturb the silence. the sun in the background does not move, but perhaps it is creeping along so steadily that he simply cannot see it. no, at the moment crowley is one of the men in an oil painting, and even though he has said nothing, he cannot help but wonder about what a queer pronounciation oil has.

god was wrong to leave him behind. but maybe she was never there. maybe crowley wasn’t either.

there’s a somebody with a letter for him. it does not arrive. it does not sit down. but it does make itself comfortable in its sitting position. crowley does not move, but he is sauntering over to the something, and he does not see it unusual that it is a mess of ink black tendrils, or that it smells strongly of tar and the pollution he tossed into the river. it has no face. it does not see crowley, but it does look at him.

“you are wrong.” is the conversation starter, the pickup line. its voice is smooth and it will remain smooth, and it is almost reminiscent of a pastry. white lilies. something that sounded so upset at the cold yet would bask in the glory of freezing to death. the saturation of the grass below began to crescendo as its colours began to match the sky.

“am i?” is crowley’s smug response. he did not want to respond, and the grass is growing teeth and are gnawing on his ankles. the somebody across from him does not have hands, but they are placed politely in his lap.

“of course you are.” it says back. crowley makes the wrong decision and scoffs. he always does. “you always were.” it tells him, handing him the letter. he takes it. he did not take it. he never wanted to, he never does. as his hands close around the envelope, crowley has the realisation that the river was of holy quality. he brings it closer to him and carefully opens it with the vague knowledge that he shouldn’t. but it’s not like he has a choice. he was too far deep when the river spat him out and he hissed a new tongue back at it.

the letter tells him that it is not sunset, that he was never free, and neither is someone else. there are no words written on the paper. the bite marks begin to sting as the letter begins to fade. he doesn’t rip it up, or burn it, or throw it in the river with everything else. he’s learned that resisting doesn’t work anymore. he never has a choice after he closes his eyes, and the somebody doesn’t have hands but suddenly it’s taking his glasses off. he smells crisp leather and enormous black eyes.

the somebody is made of stars now and it is sitting noticeably farther away from him. crowley doesn’t bother reaching out for them anymore. he doesn’t deserve that kind of hope. not now, when there is sunset. not here. the grass is crawling up to his eyes now. there isn’t a single cloud in the sky, but it’s raining now. little sparks and embers. in the back of his mind, crowley sees an embroidery of feathers on a smiling face. golden curls. his fingers suddenly itch to run his hands through someone’s hair.

“you know, don’t you?”

“‘course,” he doesn’t. not yet.

“wrong again.” of course it is. “do you need me to tell you?” yes.

“no.”

“you lie to everyone, don’t you.” even hell? even you? who is it this time? crowley forgot why he knows to ask now. he does not. “even him.” crowley melts and he doesn’t know why. he wants to say that no, he doesn’t. sure, he’s a demon, but he doesn’t exactly lie to people. being honest can wreak more of the petty havoc crowley feeds on. he doesn’t know when he suddenly got rational again or why it doesn’t feel good anymore, but he also accepts that this is how things perhaps are, now.

the blades of grass are living up to their name now. they’re holding him at gunpoint and even if he wanted to move, since they’re just blades of grass, it’s not like he could anyway. why? because he shouldn’t. the river is suddenly on fire and it’s all he sees. why his eyes decided to pick out the tufts of golden curls, he’s not sure. porcelain coloured feathers fall into the sea of fire and he can’t look away but he can’t be helped and watches with full intent. it’s not until his voice threatens to break into a sob that he remembers why.

“do you know now?” crowley’s response is just a choke on his own breath. he wants to scream, but the obscenities and the hollering and the grand gestures are- all caught in his throat. he does know. but sometimes that’s not the right answer. sometimes knowing what’s best can’t save the somebody. or him. it isn’t made of stars anymore, no. it’s the red storm on jupiter. “of course you do. use your words, now. repeat after me if you insist on being like this.”

“he missed me.” it pauses, making direct eye contact with crowley. they are several feet apart and neither has eyes anymore. “he needed me.”

“i was everything to him. we spent six thousand years together.”

“and when i finally had him in my grasp?” stop.

“i killed him.”

there is focus in stillness. a single moment refracted across the world like a stained glass window. crowley is suddenly in a church, but he does not feel pain. his hand is dragging itself down the patterns of soft light and colour before he has the chance to think of stopping it. it is a kaleidoscope of grander scale. a cacophony of too much arranged to be hardly enough. the moon looms large.

he sees him. neither takes another step to the other, but suddenly the shoes of him flicker and crackle with orange. they sparkle with sunset and crowley stands still. he realises that his glasses are off too late and he never fixed his colour blindness. crowley is staring into the eyes of a snake as they flash between the blue of a home along the beach and the yellow of fool’s gold.

“you’re wrong, crowley.” the voice hesitates. it’s the white of lilies and the face is covered by a mask of those same ink black tendrils. it speaks from a mouth that crowley wants to kill and steal away all for himself, damned be however selfish it is, from a mouth that nibbles at pastries and is suddenly saying cruel things to him. “and i, think you always.. were.” it shouldn’t hurt so much to be told that you’re not perfect. from an angel with wonderfully gentle hands and an expressive face.

crowley doesn’t say anything as the figure continues to stare at him, in its eyeless way. he doesn’t say anything as the bomb drops again, and the walls are broken down, but this time it’s different and there’s no statue. the holy water sprays the room and he doesn’t know how, but he sees fire. too much of it. books, pages, burnt to a crisp. the figure isn’t there anymore. crowley runs and runs to somewhere, he doesn’t know where, maybe to the somebody, maybe back to hell where he was supposed to belong after he got himself kicked out of heaven, he’s bursting through the doors of _something_ and everything is too much again.

he isn’t looking for anything but crowley rushes upstairs like he hopes there’s a bedroom up there, protected and safe and he hopes whoever the he-somebody is in there is oblivious to everything that’s happening. none of the doors are there anymore and there’s nowhere to hide from everything falling out of his eyes, crowley stumbles backwards into hell and crashes into hastur who’s suddenly him and _everyone_ is him now, he doesn’t catch his breath he never needed it, it’s a rapid fire soundtrack of nothing and he feels nothing, nothing is real but everything is happening at the same time.

“get, away-”

“why do you, want me gone?” several say the words. only one voice is heard. like wind chimes.

“just-” he doesn’t have anything else to say to him. this is all crowley’s fault, and now they both know it is. impossibly, he digs his back further into the wall and buries his face in his palms. dramatic gestures. no sunglasses. the sun rises on the figure as all crowley sees now is its radiant glow and the black tendrils. they smile with no facial features as the figure is burnt to a crisp and a single remaining feather is about to fall, pure, pristine, crystalline white-

“where the bloody _somebody_ are you?!” crowley doesn’t know who he’s calling to, or why he suddenly sounds like a dying animal that’s lost its owner.

“gone, crowley.” there is no voice. “i was always gone.” it’s crowley’s fault. it wasn’t on purpose- he didn’t know what would happen- he’s _sorry-_

and then he wakes up. it takes him a moment to process what he just saw, but then crowley is scrambling out of bed, refusing to sit still after- after, everything. he’s panting and even the pitch black of the room around him is too much, he looks around and there’s ink black, he closes his eyes and there’s tendrils, all he can manage to do is hold back another sob as his fingers start bending backwards. he’s putting too much pressure on them again. his eyes are wide and he can’t breathe, and if he is breathing then it’s too goddamn heavenly, heavily, _something-_ aziraphale is waking up.

“crowley? what’s got you up, dear-” the angel was never the type to lag behind mornings. he wakes up, and is alert, though maybe a tad lethargic. crowley wasn’t listening, still breathing far too heavily. maybe he was going on about being excited to get a good night’s sleep and then make breakfast in the morning, but now that’s all interrupted, maybe he was saying that he felt or heard rustling but tried to not think much of it- oh. now, his hands are on crowley. he looks up. at aziraphale.

palms and elegant fingers, manicured nails sliding up crowley’s arms. everything about aziraphale is hesitant. his words, his voice, his movements, even now. the gentle fingertips ache to fall around crowley’s sides and hold him tight, he longs to tell the demon that everything is going to be alright, and wants to beg him to _oh, please just stop shaking._ crowley doesn’t know this but he expects it, and it’s so objective that it hardly has anything to do with an ego. “crowley, are- are you alright?” of course he’s not.

it takes him a moment, years it feels after aziraphale’s hands have stilled and his arms are the things coaxing crowley closer. it’s a very polite, delicate embrace. just as ethereal as the angel himself. and oh, did the demon pray. prayed that there would be no words, no questions, no stars sprinkled across their room as decoration. just pitch black, where crowley can dig his face into the area between aziraphale’s neck and shoulder and doesn’t have to be seen.

he feels safe here. the angel smells like honey in someone’s hair, and morning dew, and it’s all so familiar. crowley wants to grab at the firm fabric that he never knows how aziraphale tolerates, hold onto it like if he doesn’t the angel will die until his arms don’t have strength anymore, he doesn’t speak but chokes onto his words. the demon doesn’t realise that he’s grappling onto the angel so tightly that it hurts until his hands are trembling with the effort of holding something.

the world is dark and it tells crowley that everything will be alright. he relaxes. aziraphale doesn’t pull away, but is smiling. it’s something you pick up on, with how warm his body begins to feel, and how his shoulders rise with a wonderful jubilance. because now the angel’s world is bright again and he doesn’t need to be told that everything will be alright. “crowley, why did you-”

“just a bit of a something, angel.” his drawl is sleepy, tired, muffled by the angel’s clothes. he’d make a flippant hand gesture if he had the energy. “let’s go back to bed.” aziraphale’s hum of newfound contentment, happiness, and anticipation for when they talk about this in the morning is all crowley needs. the temptation of closed eyes is what lulled him to rest, but god if he didn’t want to tell her that she finally did something right for him when aziraphale’s arms fell around his waist, and god be blasted if that didn’t help his slumber along.

the house flickered with flashes of love as the somebody crept out to the tune of a haunting melody.

**Author's Note:**

> like and subscribe my twitter is @sola_bixsoda


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